Mr. Howlett

Mr. Howlett was one of the first colonists to cross the ocean. He was fiercely aggressive, domineering, stubborn, and forceful.

He considered himself one of the pioneers of this great age. Yes, he thought of himself not only as an adventurer who had come to pursue his dreams, but also as a new nobleman bringing the spark of civilization to a barren land—even though his father had been only a first mate on an old ocean-going whaling ship.

The man had good reason to be proud.

In 1763, Britain brought Canada into its colonial backyard. In the early summer of 1802, Mr. Howlett came alone to this still-untamed land at just seventeen, carrying nothing but an old flintlock inherited from his father and three pounds and fifteen pence.

His older brother, meanwhile, had received the secondhand whaling ship that Old Howlett had spent a lifetime saving for the Howlett Family, along with the family's whaling business.

More than forty years later, there was no one in Edmonton who didn't know Mr. Howlett. He was the biggest rancher and landowner in western Canada, and one of the wealthiest British colonists.

For years, people had known him only as Mr. Howlett, and few had ever heard his given name. He called himself simply Howlett, believing that he alone represented the true Howlett Family.

These days, what troubled Mr. Howlett most was that his family had so few descendants. Though he had spent plenty of time in his youth exerting himself between the sheets, now, at sixty, he had only one son, John, and a grandson in his teens, James.

"How's Jamie doing?" Mr. Howlett asked, his words muffled around his pipe.

"Father Hans has seen him. He still has a bit of a fever, but he's stopped coughing. He woke up for a little while earlier, drank some water, and went back to sleep." John carefully reassured his father. He knew how much James meant to the old man, who had already lost one grandson.

Mr. Howlett took a couple of hard puffs, then exhaled a long stream of smoke and grumbled, "When I was in my teens, I was already strong enough to carry a harpoon to the blacksmith to have it derusted. You were sturdy as a boy, too—you used to run around carrying a calf that weighed over forty pounds. How'd Jamie turn out like a premature lamb?"

"Maybe children aren't as hardy as they used to be. Tony was so little when he—"

"He caught an epidemic! Those damn black beasts brought filth from that accursed continent. Since then, not a single black bastard has been allowed to serve the Howlett Family! Not one!" Mr. Howlett glared at John and spoke each word with emphasis. His knuckles had gone white around his pipe. John regretted bringing up his dead brother. Blushing, he assured his father that there was nothing to worry about, then bent to usher Mr. Howlett into the parlor to rest.

Lying in bed, "James" heard every word of their conversation in the hall. For now, pretending to be asleep seemed the safest course. After waking, he had instinctively asked for some water, then closed his eyes and tried to make sense of his situation.

If people died and were reborn, there ought to be some process—perhaps a journey through the underworld, or being pushed out of a mother's womb. But this felt like the kind of transmigration made familiar by movies and novels. He kept his eyes shut, struggling to wake from the nightmare and distinguish fantasy from reality.

Perhaps the young child's body was simply too weak after a serious illness. Before he knew it, he drifted back into a daze, while scenes of his past boxing practice kept flashing through his mind.

His own body, depleted and gasping for breath as he fought for his life—and the brief childhood of this boy named James. Rose, the sweet little maid; Victor, whose strong body he had always envied, though he could be a bully; his beautiful mother, Elizabeth, whom he had rarely seen...

The improvement in his beloved grandson's condition lifted Mr. Howlett's spirits, and the whole estate breathed a deep sigh of relief. In truth, the servants and slaves were used to the frequent oppressive tension. Young Master James had always been frail and sickly, often burning with fever and falling into a deep sleep.

Whenever it happened, all the servants took extra care with their words and actions. Even mistakes that would normally go unnoticed could easily bring punishment.

But such an atmosphere hardly affected the older children. Victor, in particular—the son of the gardener, Thomas Logan—liked to stay by James's side whenever he was ill.

Mr. Howlett thought Victor would grow up to be a loyal servant, and couldn't help taking a liking to the boy. But James's father, John Howlett, disliked Victor intensely. Aside from his long, thick, filthy-looking fingernails, the main reason was Victor's father.

After dinner, Mr. Howlett heard that James had gotten up and eaten some toast and fruit. In high spirits, he went to visit him. When he opened the bedroom door, he saw his grandson sitting up, looking around with bright, eager eyes.

"Jamie, how are you feeling? Still unwell?" Perhaps only in front of this grandson did the old man's face show such a complicated expression: he tried to maintain his usual stern composure, but could hardly hide his urgent concern.

"Grandfather, I'm much better. My head doesn't hurt at all anymore. I'm sorry I worried you again..."

Mr. Howlett studied his grandson, his eyes full of conflicting emotions. James looked very much like his mother, Elizabeth. He was a pretty child, and remarkably well-mannered.

That was quite unlike the Howlett Family's coarse, rugged features, and his gentle temperament was just as unlike them. But his hair and eyes were the same deep, almost-black shade as theirs.

"Maybe things will settle down now. A gentle nature isn't so bad," Mr. Howlett mused. Then he gave James a few more instructions and left the room.

Old Howlett felt there was something different about his grandson, though he couldn't say what. Even his speech was more fluent, without the hesitation he'd shown before. Muttering to himself, he put his pipe between his teeth and went downstairs.

After seeing off the old man, "James" sank back onto the bed, his emotions tangled. Looking at the nineteenth-century European furnishings around him and his own small, pale hands, he silently accepted his new identity.

From now on, Bai Feng was gone for good. He had gotten his revenge. Though he had used his frail body to fight to the death, at least he had no regrets and had done right by his teacher. Now, he was simply a little boy named James Howlett.

Feeling the memories of James's life—full of illness, fever, and weakness—Bai Feng seethed with frustration. Couldn't he at least get a normal, healthy body when he transmigrated through time? He cursed silently, then heard hurried footsteps on the stairs. The bedroom door burst open.

"James! I heard you're better!"

"I still feel pretty bad, but I should be all right now. Thanks, Victor."

Victor Logan swaggered around the room, a small knife clutched in his hand. He plopped down beside James's bed and began trimming his absurdly long, thick fingernails. He showed no restraint, nor any of the deferential respect a servant owed a young master.

James wasn't angry. He simply watched with interest as the older boy used the knife to shave the overgrown tips of his nails, as if whittling wood.

"You're always like this, James. Always so sickly."

Victor glanced disdainfully at the delicate-looking boy leaning against the bed, like a porcelain doll. Though only fifteen or sixteen, Victor already had a faint mustache along his sideburns and cheeks. His broad frame made him look almost like a grown man.

"I heard you used to get sick a lot when you were little, too?" James asked without thinking.

Victor paused the knife in his hand, which had been moving deftly as he trimmed his nails, but didn't answer. "A new batch of fine-bred foals is arriving soon. If you're still like this, don't think you'll get to ride one. Mr. Howlett won't let you near them, either."

Victor lifted his chin, stood, and brushed the nail clippings off his trousers. Then he strode out of the room without even closing the door.

James struggled to sit up and picked up a piece of nail that had fallen onto the bed. He examined it closely, a faint glimmer in his eyes...